


What It Means

by avengersavalanche



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Avengers Family, Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Protective Clint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-12
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-30 06:39:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3926635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avengersavalanche/pseuds/avengersavalanche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely, when it comes to sacrificing themselves in order to rescue others, they know what to do. But once the world is saved, what is left? Behind all the praise and all the bruises, what does it mean to be a hero?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Let Go

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: This story contains spoilers. It begins around the end of "The Avengers: Age of Ultron" when Pietro Maximoff is shot. Possible warnings and tags will be added as the story proceeds.

It's funny, he thinks, how easy it is. Letting go always seemed so hard. He never imagined himself capable of it. He never thought of a future beyond the two of them. Suddenly that possibility becomes painfully clear and, more than anything, just out of reach. If he would stretch out his arms to it now he would scrape it with the tips of his fingers. Closer than it has ever been before.  
He remembers them sitting in a small room with nothing more than the glow of a candle that kissed their beaten faces with gold, and the sound of their laughter to cover up those bruises. And it was good. Those times he remembers with fondness. But it strikes him that something bigger and greater is just ahead of them. Why does he think of that now? Why do his memories merge together with a hope for the future? A future that is, maybe for the first time, inviting, or even desirable.  
He wonders whether that is how all things end. How fallen soldiers find solace, before being completely swallowed by the earth.

Now, with bullets planted into his body like seeds in the earth, he realises little is left to his imagination. He hits the ground. The taste of dirt stings in his mouth, and it's not unfamiliar. The shouting over his head grows further away; the gunfire peters out. It's light. It's so very light. The pain is blunt; present but not frightening. There's no running from it, no speed in the world with which he can escape. They were not raised to escape. They, they would no longer be. His eyes sting and he closes them. Beneath him he can already feel the earth shifting, moving on without him. He had never imagined it would be this easy.

\--- 

"I need a doctor here immediately," Clint kneels down. Bright blood stains his pants, and he can feel how hot and sticky it is against his skin. Before speaking again he draws a short breath, and keeps his voice steady as he speaks. "Does anyone copy?"

Carefully, he presses a finger underneath Pietro's jaw, and brushes a few white blond locks away with his other hand. A shiver runs down his spine. He clenches his jaw.

"What happened?" Natasha's voice is clear and sharp in his ear, snapping him out of it. She speaks short and quickly.

"Pietro has been shot multiple times," A sickness is building in his stomach, one he learnt a healthy mind doesn't ever get used to. He tries to swallow it away. With strips of cloth that he rips off of Pietro's torn shirt he tries to bandage some injuries. He was trained for this. For never giving up. For fighting. And also, for death. "He is bleeding out. It's, it's critical."

"How much time do we have?" He can hear her footsteps. She is running now, away from something. Or towards it.

Pietro's heartbeat grows weaker underneath his fingertip. "Not much." With his arms spread across the boy's torso he tries to apply as much pressure to certain wounds as he can. He feels worthless even as he does it. _He's but a little boy_ , he can't help but think to himself, _he has no mother and no father but God knows he is loved and God knows he does not deserve this_.

His voice is sharp and urgent when he speaks. "Listen, we need a medical team right now, or we lose him."

"Unfortunately we don't have that yet in our assortment," Tony joins the conversation but cuts off his own sentence with a painful groan. It sounds like he is caught in the heat of a battle. "Sorry, turbulence."

"No time for jokes now Tony," Clint stares to the sky, hoping to see one of them, but no such luck. When he looks down again he can feel his eyes sinking back into the young man. "I think he's dying," There seem to be no other words coming together in his mind. "He's dying." The tightness in his chest makes it a little harder to breathe for a moment. It physically hurts to push the words over his lips, but Clint has seen enough dying men to recognise one.

"Up here the rescue helicopters only have a handful of first aid kits and nurses. Some doctors too though you're there Clint, you can see for yourself where they are or what they're doing. The real medical teams are, well, on the ground floor." Tony says what Clint knows, or rather, what he fears to be the truth. Whatever is up in the sky with them is not enough. There are tens, maybe hundreds of other emergencies that the few medics here have to take care of right now.

"I know a doctor," There is hesitation in Natasha's voice.

"The only thing Big-green-and-angry would be good for now is a quick and painless death," Tony says, "Unless you can," There is a short pause in which he breathes in deeply. "Should I give you a lift?"

 --- 

"You wanted hulk," Two fists are thrown up threateningly in the air. "You have hulk!"

She flinches, remembers what he said during their training. _If you make yourself a target, you will be seen as one._ For a moment she remains motionless, and has to remind herself to breathe. When she meets his eye she sees pure madness, compressed into an enormous beast. And she is trying to reason with him? Tell him they need Bruce when she was the one to push him into the dark abyss of his own biggest fear? She clenches her fists and then relaxes her hands, but her eyes are glued to his massive body. Underneath his green skin she can see white hot rage pulsing through his veins like lava.

It was a while ago since seeing the hulk remembered her of their first meeting so vividly. She doubts it will let go of her, try as she might. A fright so pure and simple struck her then, and is still there, like needles in her bones. He is destruction and she is intelligence. Like fire and water they seem but capable of hurting themselves and each other with each contact.

In these moments she is reminded of how small and fragile she is. The Black Widow, the internationally feared superspy with no skill as well-trained and perfected as murder, is feeling her bones turn glass and her skin paper. Sometimes she believes he could rip her apart with only his voice, piercing fear into the hearts of whole cities with his roar. She is hyperaware of how close to death she is, and how indestructible he will always remain.

And yet when she remembers the man inside there, the lab coat wearing softie who thinks she doesn't catch his shy stares, she can't see them as opposites anymore. Even as a kind-hearted scientist against a cold killer like her, it becomes clear who they really are. They are Avengers. No fire and water can compare to whom they have become. If anything, they are invincible.

Invincible, and a little broken. She licks her lips and inhales slowly. She has learnt very well by now that anger is but a secondary emotion. It is the effect, and she needs to get to the cause of it. "I'm sorry." His eyes find her, hidden in a face of green fury, and she hopes that if not intelligence can convince him, sentiment will. "I'm sorry for not running with you."

He growls, a deep rumble from within his chest. _If it angers him_ , she tells herself, _it hurts him_.

"I wanted to run with you. I still want to," In a half-hearted automatism she raises her hand to him, erasing her doubts skilfully out of her voice. She is an actress after all, and she gets to decide whether he will ever know that she does not want to flee and leave behind all of this. But there is no grace in lying to him. Not even to the Other Guy. "I still want to be with you." Her eyes stick to his every movement. She knows could lie to him. She could coax him out of this. It would probably be quite effective. Yet right now the truth is much more difficult to say, and the easy way was not made for her. "But not at the cost of others. We can save people. You too, both you and Bruce."

He lashes out at the ground next to her and she closes her eyes. She stands, like a statue, and waits. All thoughts of death and fear are swept to the back of her head, where they feast on old memories and make promises of sleepless nights.

"We need you," She breathes, hardly audible for herself. No sound slips past the hulk. He is focused on everything, overwhelmed by senses too sharp for himself. It drives him insane, but even monsters get used to certain levels of insanity.

He presses his other fist against the ground as well, going down on all fours and letting out a weaker groan. Before her, the beast falls down in surrender. Gradually he becomes paler, smaller, and starts too look just as fragile as her. Deceivingly so, but it kindles hope in her chest. He gasps for air, his skin too tight and body suddenly almost weightless. Coated in dirt and sweat he finally collapses onto the ground. The pride and strength that usually creep onto her after this kind of victory stay absent now. They have not won yet. She reaches for him, but he turns his head away and pushes himself up on his shaky arms.

"Bruce-"

"What happened?" He chokes on his words.

"Pietro is dying," She whips the words at him, and they shake him, too strong for him to grasp them. Confused and in pain, he struggles to his feet before trying to listen. She waits, silently, without helping him. She hurt him, she knows, and he hasn't forgiven her for it. He doesn't seem to understand his purpose, but she has always been patient. Pietro however does not have that kind of time.

"What?" He asks when he is able to stand on both feet.

Tony makes a swift landing next to them. "Pietro is dying, that's what," He repeats whilst wrapping both of his arms around Bruce. "Hold onto me tightly now, we're going for a ride."

 --- 

As soon as they land Bruce falls to his knees and presses his head to the ground. A long, weak moan leaves his mouth. The ruins of the city spin around him and he shivers violently.

"Our doctor has arrived," Tony states, gesturing proudly towards Bruce.

Clint turns his head and raises an eyebrow. "Our doctor looks like he needs a doctor."

"Well, yes," Tony agrees and points to some place behind them, "Also, I saw a hospital down the street, and guess what? It's only half blown up."

"Aren't we lucky?" Clint comments dryly.

"You carry Legally Blonde there and I'll go ahead with Bruce to see what we can use," Tony says before grabbing his friend by the arm and helping him up.

Clint turns back to Pietro and picks him up with as delicacy as he can muster. The glow of life seeps out of his face and his eyes stare hazily into the distance. His winces become fainter with each step they make. "You are an Avenger now, Pietro," The world around them seems to slow down. The boy he holds against his chest slips away slowly. A brother, an ally, and once a son, once held safely in someone's arms. "Just walk it off."


	2. To Hold On

Pietro is laid neatly on the operation table. Blood soaks his clothes and though he ceases to move, every once in a while a violent shiver seizes his body. Sweat covers Tony's forehead and he too shivers, despite a burning sensation that is going through his body. Involuntarily he remembers bodies like Pietro's. He remembers corpses as well as men who were alive; alive, but not for long. Red splatters and trembling hands, voices from the strongest of soldiers whimpering, begging for their mama.

His guts twist and his ribs shrink around his racing heart. The fright curls its fingers around him in an iron grip. It blocks him from looking away, and throws open the gates of old memories. Memories that shoot through his head like bullets and bombs, like the limbs of children and the tears of mothers. The air in the hospital room is thick with blood. It fills his lungs, leaving behind its metallic scent until it becomes harder and harder to breathe.

He swallows and cracks a smile. "What's the diagnosis, doctor?"

Bruce is leaning over the boy, hands travelling frantically from one wound to another, yet they remain steady like the hands of a skilled doctor. Tony has his own nails dug into the palms of his hands to keep them still. He tries to focus on the precision with which Bruce pulls a bullet out of Pietro's guts. At least his professional way of doing is a reassurance. Bruce learnt to handle what happens around him much better than handling the terror within him. "The diagnosis?" A nervous smile plays on his lips. "Depends on what you want me to tell you."

"So there's good news and bad news?"

"Don't turn this into a joke, Tony," Steve walks into the room. His eyes immediately find Pietro and he slows down to a stop. He looks at something far beyond Pietro and clenches his jaw. If Steve was truly a free man, Tony believes, he would turn around and leave. Any free man with a healthy desire to avoid trauma would leave. However, duty keeps him here. It is a moral plight, a mind that can demand the body to stay where the pain is the greatest. Steve blinks a few times, trying to whip away the images before him. His shoulders are tensed; his whole body is. Tony can't help wanting to pat him on his back silently. They've both been through enough gunfire, held enough hands growing cold and forced enough breaths through their tight throats. Steve's choice to stay is one of strength. And where Steve is strong, Tony can only call himself stubborn. He wants to reach out and put an arm around him, tell him wordlessly that he understands and maybe most of all he wants a warm hand and a watery smile back.

Bruce looks up and draws their attention. "So what do you want to hear first, the good news or the bad news?"

"Good news," Steve says whilst simultaneously Tony says "Bad news."

Bruce cleans a scalpel, his eyes not leaving the boy when he aswers, "Well, he should have been dead already."

Steve inhales sharply. "And the good news?"

For a moment Bruce parts his lips without making a sound. "That's, it's, it's both the good and bad news, actually," He gestures vaguely with the scalpel, "A punctured lung, in combination with, well, I won't get into detail, but it is all fairly lethal," He speaks slowly and tries to take the weight of the words, aware that he has always been bad at that, "but, I mean, he's still alive."

"Can we help?" Steve says while taking a step forward, and Tony has to keep himself from pulling him back. He almost wants to roll his eyes and tell him that it's okay not to give everything. It's exhausting to watch someone pushing their limits for the sake of doing what they deem to be _the right thing to do_. But he supposes that that's exactly what makes Steve Steve, what makes him Captain America.

Even when he is awed by Steve's capacity to walk over every boundary with the steadiness of a soldiers march, he himself never desired to be that kind of unselfish and self-sacrificing hero. Attempting to become such a hero would be the very reason why it would fail. Steve carries this in his nature; Tony doesn't.

"I just need to, um," Bruce starts looking around the room, and it's hard to tell whether he is looking for simplified medical terms or a life-saving apparatus. "His lung is," He trails off halfway his sentences, talking more to himself than to them. "The wound, I need to close," He cuts himself off with a sigh.

Tony raises an eyebrow. "Want us to find a patch to stitch onto him?"

The glare Steve gives him lasts but a second, and instead of feeling guilty about it, those are exactly the moments he can't withhold his comments, nor feel guilty about them. Like a brutal child, proud of his petulance.

"No, no, this needs to be, um, vacuum." He continues mumbling to himself until a moment later he finds just what he needs and bends over the wound again, "You see, the pressure inside the human body is lower than outside, and because his lung is punctured, the pressure in his body will rise,"

"Which will cause his lung to collapse," Tony finishes for him.

"Pneumothorax." Bruce hums without losing concentration. After that he immediately returns to another wound, situated around Pietro's stomach. "I'm afraid the two of you can't really do much."

"And I?" Her voice is cold, like steel, "Can I help?"

Behind her, Natasha enters and gestures for the two men to leave. They do so, Tony less concerned about showing his relief to be out of there. Clint joins them and their voices and footsteps peter out quickly.

Bruce can't say out loud that he preferred Tony's and Steve's companion, but his glances that nervously hop from one place to another are loud and clear. It's hard to say whose presence weighs heaviest on him, but Wanda reads his fears like an open book.

"I just want my brother to be alive and well," She tells him, "I'll do anything to help."

There are questions burning on his lips. The alliance between the Avengers and the twins didn't exactly happen with his proper presence. He doesn't trust her one bit; she can tell. Perhaps that's why she doesn't expect him to ignore his own instinct and doubt. "His mind, can you control it?"

She lowers her gaze to her brother and steps closer to him. Without looking up she answers, "What do you want me to do?"

There is a short moment of silence before he speaks again. Even in his silences, he never stops moving, always cleaning, inspecting or plucking at wounds. "I can't use anaesthesia. The stuff that is strong enough to numb out the level of pain he is going through can trigger other reactions. It would be safer if you could somehow keep him at least from moving."

She almost finds herself waiting for Black Widow to say something, but the sphere between her and him is tensioned and heavy. "How have you been keeping him quiet up until now?"

"It's because," He starts saying but cuts himself off, "Listen," He says and stops halfway through cleaning away blood from a bullet hole below Pietro's ribs. When he raises his head to meet her eyes she has to resist the urge to push his head back down. "This is all going to be rather unpleasant."

Her lips form a thin line. "Pietro and I have known no pleasantries in our lives. We've had our fair share of blood and death. Get to the point."

Bruce nods and quickly glances back down. "He's mostly been blacking out from pain. There are a few places on the human body that cause a sort of paralysis when pressure is applied too. It's not really safe either way."

"It's safe now," She says and takes a deep breath to keep her voice steady. "He's quiet now." She carefully caresses his cheek. Nausea overwhelms her when she touches his cold skin, and it's too late to keep herself from imagining. Her eyes sting but she blinks it away, believing that weeping would be equal to admitting her loss. And she has not lost him. She will not lose him.

"I will cut him open now, please don't force yourself to watch." He says, but the words leave her head as easily as they entered it. There are more words following, but she doesn't even catch them. All she sees is his a red line drawn over his skin. She sees his flesh, his blood gushing out, and a stranger's fingers reaching into the body of her brother. Her heart beats violently against her ribs.

"Wanda," A soft voice snaps her out of it. Natasha lies her hand on her shoulder. "He needs you to stay calm."

Pietro's fingers curl around the edge of the table, but within a split second his whole body relaxes again. He is shimmering with sweat. When Bruce removes his hand, he pulls something dark and red out of Pietro's body. It's soaked with blood, dripping down his arms, onto Pietro's body and everywhere else. Bruce flings it aside. The organ hits the floor, the sound of it echoing in Wanda's head until she can't hear anything else. Still, Pietro remains peaceful; the way only a corpse can be.

"What did you do?" She breathes. On the floor lies a piece of Pietro. The puddle of blood around it expands rapidly.

"It's his spleen," Bruce mumbles without losing focus. "Not vital." She hadn't even seen his fingers go back into Pietro's body. "It has the tendency to burst and cause massive blood loss. You can't fix it however. It is removed in most cases. Sorry for being messy."

She had never associated being messy with dropping organs on the floor, neither did she want to hear such a thing from the doctor operating her brother. Everything is quite overwhelming these days. Their lives had opened up to new worlds entirely. Change hung in the air and she inhaled it deeply. She was ready for this, whatever it would turn out to be. She believed rebirth awaited them, and they would finally shed their old skins, old hatred and old fears.

And Pietro held on. He held onto the thin string of life that they reached out to him. That string of life that lied within the unwavering belief with which Clint carried him to the hospital. It was within Bruce's hands that cut him apart and stitched him back together, as well as within the mawkish promises Wanda whispered into his head. She whispered, _"Just hold on a little longer."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this please leave a comment, and if you really want to make my day please go to tumblr and follow me (avengersavalanche). Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment, it makes my day and motivates me!


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